‘It’s quite deceptive,’ Jerry said as we set off round the track on foot. ‘It looks fairly flat from the stands but there are plenty of dips and undulations that can unbalance a horse, and the far-end turn is a steep downhill run that tends to throw horses out wide coming into the straight.’
I nodded at him, taking it all in.
The start was at the far end of the finishing straight and Gasfitter and I would complete more than two full circuits, jumping twelve flights of hurdles in all, the three down the back twice and the two in the home straight three times, with sharp right-hand bends to negotiate between.
‘It’s a good galloping course,’ Jerry said as we finished our walk. ‘It’s not an easy place to make up ground so keep him handy.’
I thought back to the same ‘keep him handy’ instruction he had given to me when Wisden had won unexpectedly at Huntingdon in May.
Was something strange afoot again?
* * *
Foscote Boy and Cliveden Proposal are standing quietly in their stalls when I make my way back to the stables from the clinic in St Moritz town centre.
Jerry has refused point-blank to discuss the question of the over-weighted tack, claiming he isn’t feeling well enough, but that hasn’t stopped him giving me the key to his lock-up store in the stable building, along with a detailed set of instructions concerning what the horses must be given to eat and how they should be settled for the night.
They are due to start the long journey home to England in the morning and Jerry had already asked me if I would go with them in the horsebox he is sharing with David Maitland-Butler, the only other UK-based trainer at the meeting.
‘No,’ I said flatly. ‘I will not.’
‘But bloody Herbie is still in hospital with his broken ankle. And I’ve no one else I can ask. You’d get a free passage home.’
That might be tempting if I didn’t already possess a fully paid return air ticket.
‘How about asking the colonel? He must have a stable lad travelling with his horse. Surely he could look after yours as well?’
He looked up at me with his good eye.
‘You’ve got to be fucking joking. You know what Maitland-Butler’s like. It’s a bloody miracle he let me share his horsebox in the first place – not without a hefty fee, mind.’
Indeed, I did know what the colonel was like – he was almost as miserly as Jerry himself. And he could be extremely touchy even at the best of times, and we both knew that he wouldn’t co-operate one iota in this instance, not having been beaten by Jerry in the big race.
‘He would simply see it as his way of getting back at me.’
‘Too bad,’ I said. ‘I’m still not going. I will go and feed them for you tonight but that’s it. No more. You’ll have to arrange for one of your staff from home to come and collect them. Either that or employ a local lad to go with them and then fly him home afterwards.’
Jerry looked absolutely horrified that I should suggest anything that was so expensive.
I use his keys to open the store and then I measure out two bowls of high-energy mixed-feed racehorse nuts.
Horses generally eat approximately one pound in weight of mixed feed per day for every hand they stand high at the withers. Most are between sixteen and seventeen hands, so they need sixteen to seventeen pounds of nuts each day, plus some hay to chew on for added fibre, a total daily energy intake of some 35,000 calories – equivalent to eating about 500 Weetabix.
They also drink between six and eight gallons of water every twenty-four hours, so as well as putting the feed in their mangers and re-stuffing their hay nets, I refill their water troughs.
The two horses seem quite happy and do not appear distressed by their earlier exertions out on the frozen lake, whatever weight they may have actually carried. I pat their necks, add a second rug to their backs against the cold of the night, and use a large fork and a bucket to collect a few droppings for disposal.
Finally, I put everything away in the store, including the weighted breast girth and the chain-mail boots, but not before I use my phone to take a few photos of them first.
* * *
Gasfitter was sent off in the two-mile-seven-furlong handicap hurdle at Market Rasen at a price of twenty-to-one – quite long odds for a previous winner over hurdles, even if that had been some time ago and his recent form had been indifferent to bad.
‘Keep him handy,’ Jerry had again said to me in earnest as we stood in the parade ring.
I had simply raised my eyebrows at him but without reaction. However, there was an aura of anticipation in the air, which he couldn’t help but express in his body language, just as he had done at Huntingdon.
I wondered how much he had staked on Gasfitter’s nose, and that greatly worried me.
I had ridden for Jerry in twenty races since my win on Wisden in May and I hadn’t finished in the first two in any of them. My confidence was at rock bottom, yet here I was with the weight of Jerry’s expectation resting very heavily once more on my shoulders.
I felt sick.
All the nerves that had plagued me so much in my early rides returned with a vengeance and I almost missed the start, being left flat-footed and some six lengths behind the rest of the eleven-runner field.
So much for keeping him handy. I could almost hear Jerry’s groan coming from the grandstands.
‘No need to panic,’ I said to myself. ‘Plenty of time to catch up.’ So I didn’t try to regain the lost lengths too quickly and unnecessarily tire my horse.
By the end of the first circuit I was back in the pack, lying in seventh or eighth. Hardly handy, but better.
Turning right-handed into the back stretch for the second time, I found that Gasfitter was still moving effortlessly and we gradually gained another place, up to sixth, on the inside where I was hugging the rail.
In previous races his engine had begun to run out of petrol after about halfway, but not this time. But why was I not surprised?
I felt that his improvement in form was all going to be wasted – I had surely lost the race at the beginning. It had to be too much to have given our opponents a six-length start, even if we were going better than I had expected.
Jumping the last of the three flights down the back, I had moved up into fifth, but the four horses in front of me also seemed to be on the bridle and travelling well.
As we began the turn back into the home straight, I was badly boxed in by those ahead, two of which had finally begun to weaken.
Just as Jerry had told me earlier during our walk around the course, the sharp downhill final turn threw the horses in front out wide. I was ready and kept Gasfitter on a tight right rein, sticking like glue to the inside rail. Not only did this give me some room for my finishing run, it meant I took the shortest route, gaining several lengths over those outside me.
We jumped the last flight upsides with the long-time leader and I drove hard for the winning post, both of us flashing neck-and-neck over the line such that neither jockey knew which had won. Nor did the judge.
‘Photograph, photograph,’ he called over the public-address system.
In the past, if the result was very close, the judge would call for a positive print to be made from the negative in order to make his decision. That could take several minutes to produce. However, digital video technology has now taken over from the old film-loaded photo-finish cameras and the result is generally given quickly.
But not on this day. The crowd went strangely quiet as they waited for the result to be announced. And then they waited some more, so much so that there developed a hubbub in the stands as everyone began discussing possible reasons for why it was taking so long.
Please, can I have won. Please, can I have won.
‘It must be really tight,’ said Gasfitter’s stable lad as he came out to lead him in. ‘It’ll be on the nod.’
As horses gallop, their action causes their heads to alternately stretch out forwards and then lift up and back. Whe
n two horses cross the finish line together it is often the horse whose head just happens to be stretched out at that particular instant that wins ‘on the nod’.
Dead heats are rare, especially since the widespread introduction of photo finishes in the mid-twentieth century, but they are not so rare as to not happen. At Aqueduct Racetrack in New York in 2006, amazingly, there were three dead heats in a single afternoon.
Perhaps this would be another, I thought – not that Jerry would be very happy with that because his gambling winnings would be halved.
‘Here is the result of the photo finish,’ said the judge eventually over the speakers, causing the crowd to go quiet again.
I held my breath.
‘First number one, second number ten.’
Gasfitter was number ten.
We had lost.
My shoulders slumped with disappointment. Another loser.
Jerry would be less than happy too, especially after the debacle at the start.
And he was.
His face was puce with rage and he said absolutely nothing to me as I slid down to the ground, removed my saddle, and took it to weigh in.
In contrast, the majority of the crowd seemed delighted by the result, the well-backed favourite having just clung on to take the honours by the smallest of margins.
Losing by less than an inch after running for over two and a half miles didn’t seem very fair. But racing wasn’t fair. I should have known that by now from past experiences. It had a habit of kicking you in the teeth when you were already down, and this was just one of those occasions.
I sat on the bench in the jockeys’ changing room with my head in my hands. Devastated.
The first real chance I’d had in weeks to break my barren spell and I’d blown it, and all because I’d been careless at the start. There was, of course, no certainty that I would have won without my error, but that was what everyone would think, and they would undoubtedly say so at length on social media, and in the racing press.
At least my phone was currently switched off, as was required by the rules during racing, so no abusive messages or comments could get through.
Perhaps I’d leave it off for a while longer, or even for ever.
I sat there for a long time, as other riders went out for the remaining two races of the day.
There was an official who stood guard at the door to keep non-jockeys from entering, and at one point he came over to inform me that the trainer, Mr Dickinson, was outside and he wanted to speak to me.
‘Please tell Mr Dickinson that I don’t want to speak to him.’
The official seemed somewhat surprised that a jockey should want to say such a thing to a trainer but he disappeared and, presumably, passed on the message because he returned a couple of minutes later to say that Mr Dickinson wanted to know how long I would be, as he was waiting outside for me and it was a long drive home.
‘Please tell him that I’m not coming and he should leave without me.’
The official disappeared again to pass on this next message, while I remained seated on the bench feeling wretched.
Was I being unreasonable and foolish? Or pragmatic?
Several hours in a car with Jerry was more than I felt I could cope with at the moment, especially after the afternoon’s events. I was truly afraid of what he might say.
But how would I get home otherwise?
Did I care?
I went on sitting on the bench.
And so started the worst twenty-four hours of my life – and, in other ways, the best twenty-four hours of my life as well.
17
Susi Ashcroft arrives at the White Turf stables just as I am locking up to leave.
‘Where’s Jerry?’ she demands.
‘He’s had a slight accident. Hurt his eye. The doctors have kept him in overnight for observation.’
She is not remotely sympathetic. Indeed, she is annoyed. ‘Then why didn’t he bloody call me? I’ve been waiting for him in the bar at my hotel for over an hour. We were going to celebrate our win.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, although I have nothing really to be sorry about.
‘And I have dinner booked for us at The K. Does he have the slightest idea how difficult it is to get a table in there at such short notice?’
The K is the hugely expensive and exclusive Michelin-starred restaurant at the Kulm Hotel. Even I know how difficult it is to get in, not that I’d ever been. I assume that Jerry didn’t offer to pay, even with his share of the race purse.
‘I’m sure Jerry didn’t hurt himself on purpose.’
‘But it’s most inconvenient.’ She purses her lips in irritation. ‘I don’t suppose you would like to join me?’
She’s right – I wouldn’t – but, once again, my mother’s insistence of being polite to a woman raises its head. Hence I don’t simply say ‘no’ outright. Instead, I try to make up an excuse.
‘I have to look after the horses for Jerry.’ I wave over my right shoulder, towards where they are standing quietly in their stables.
‘Don’t be silly,’ Susi says with a hollow laugh. ‘The horses can damn well look after themselves, at least for the next few hours, and you know it. I’m not stupid. If you don’t want to come and have dinner with me, just say so. But if you won’t, I’ll have to eat for two anyway as I had to pre-pay for the five-course tasting menu in order to secure the table.’
I mentally compare the five-course tasting menu at The K to my usual evening fare of a take-away lamb wrap from the döner kebab stall near my lodgings.
‘OK, Susi, I’d love to join you for dinner.’
* * *
Eventually, a member of the racecourse security staff asked me to leave the jockeys’ changing room at Market Rasen so that he could lock up.
At least, by then, I had changed from my riding britches into my street clothes. I still had no idea where I was going, or why, but I collected my kit, stuffed it into my holdall and walked out with it over my shoulder.
The racecourse is just a mile away from the town centre and that seemed to be as good a place as any, so I set off in that direction.
It was a warm early August summer’s evening and the sun was still high in the sky when I reached the market square. There were sounds of revelry spilling out from the open front door of the Aston Arms on the northern edge of the square and, suddenly, a drink seemed to me to be a very good idea – a stiff one.
‘Gin and tonic,’ I said to the barman in the pub. ‘Make it a double. No, a triple.’
He pushed a glass up three times on the optic. ‘Slimline or regular tonic?’
‘Regular,’ I said. I didn’t care about the calories. After refusing to speak to my employer, I reckoned my race-riding career was over for good, so why should I worry about putting on a few pounds?
I slid a ten-pound note across the bar.
‘Been at the races?’
I nodded, taking a big slug of the drink. ‘How do you know?’
He pointed down at my holdall on the floor, which had my whip sticking out through a gap in the zip. ‘Riding, were you?’
I nodded again and drained my drink. ‘Same again,’ I said, slamming the glass down onto the bar top.
He pushed the optic up three times more, splashed in a little more tonic, and passed the new drink across to me in exchange for another tenner.
I took another deep slug.
‘That bad, was it?’
‘Worse.’
I could feel the first welcome effects of alcohol on my brain, accelerated by the fact that I’d had nothing to eat all day.
‘Do you do food?’ I asked the barman.
‘Not on Sunday evenings,’ he replied. ‘We only have crisps or nuts.’
I had a bag of salt and vinegar.
‘Which way to the train station?’
‘Across the square, down John Street opposite. Left into Chapel Street and it’s on your right. You can’t miss it.’
I drained my glass and pic
ked up my holdall.
‘Thanks.’
‘Won’t do you any good, mind.’
‘Why not?’
‘There are no trains from Rasen on a Sunday.’
* * *
‘Tell me about Brenda Fenton’s grandsons,’ I say to Susi over our starter course at The K.
‘You mean the terrible twins, Ronnie and Reggie.’
I laugh. ‘You must be joking.’
The infamous Kray twins, murderous gangsters in London during the 1960s, were called Ronnie and Reggie.
‘Yes, I am,’ Susi says with a wry smile. ‘Their real names are Declan and Justin but they’re nicknamed Ronnie and Reggie. Tweedledum and Tweedledee, more like. But don’t be saying that to their faces, mind. They’re not averse to chucking their weight around and using their fists on those who they think don’t pay them or their grandmother sufficient respect.’
‘Nice.’ My voice is heavy with sarcasm.
‘That is one word I have never heard in connection with those two.’
‘What do they do for a living?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine. Some say they simply live off their grandmother, but there are also rumours they’re involved in organised crime – you know, protection rackets and such. Plus they gamble a lot on boxing. They’re very keen on their boxing.’
Hence the use of their fists.
‘Are they ever in trouble with the law?’
Susi laughs loudly. ‘When are they not? But, sadly, nothing serious enough to put them in prison. They keep getting off. Probably by intimidating witnesses. They claim they’re misunderstood and that they are nice boys at heart.’ She laughs again but she is not amused.
‘You seem to know a lot about them.’
She sighs. ‘Brenda and I used to be friends – good friends.’
‘What happened?’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘That’s OK,’ I say. ‘This is a long dinner.’
And what a superb one it is too.
Iced Page 12
